The Caged Bird Sings
by asimbelmyne
Summary: He kissed her face, her eyes, her cheeks, her neck, and she yielded to his touch as if she had known nothing but the feel of his calloused hands her entire life.


"I am no bird; and no net ensnares me: I am a free human being with an independent will."

― Charlotte Brontë, Jane Eyre

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Maria hadn't ever been particularly resentful, but unlike most people, certain things weighed heavily on her conscience until she began to feel as debilitated as a pebble. She didn't want to relinquish her pride to anyone, but had been taught at a young age that people were often defined by their choices, the good ones and the bad, and she was resigned to accept the consequences of her actions whether she deserved them rightfully or not. But despite such honourable convictions, Maria had discovered shortly upon entering Masyaf that she could only take so much, especially when it involved those choices, the ones she had made when she had been more resentful than wizened as a Templar. She was by no means any more sensible than she had been a year ago, but she liked to think that Altaïr's words had reached her heart somehow, spoken in all seriousness like the weight of his touch, callused and raw, like he'd had a difficult life and worked twice as hard for everything he had.

A soft smile spread across her mouth as she thought about him, but she quelled these musings and stared listlessly at his robes instead, tossed heedlessly around the spools of a misplaced chair. Altaïr had never taken his profession lightly, yet in the throes of a passion, he'd so carelessly toss his clothing about that he'd have a difficult time locating where everything had gone in the morning. It never failed to amuse her when he trundled around like that, reaching for his breeches, pulling his cowl over his head, even going so far as to fondle his weapons in absentminded worship. But Maria had gotten up before him and had yet to see such a display. As far as she knew, she'd never be granted the privilege of wearing that attire herself.

She was a woman. It wasn't as if she had expected the Brotherhood to understand her point of view regarding that, but she had never been particularly feminine and possessed skills that many men looked down upon, the kind that did not correspond with her sex's gentle nature. In a world where one's proficiency in battle determined their value, she had done what was necessary in the name of God and had taken an oath of commitment, vowing to go on crusade like the rest of the men in her village. In all likelihood, she knew that she had managed to sully her husband's good name and her prospects almost instantly, but she hadn't cared. She thought that the Brotherhood would save her from further humiliation, but after all she had been through and after everything she had lost, she had been forbidden to don the robes Altaïr wore with pride. Members of the Brotherhood thought it inhumane, unwomanly, and godless. It wasn't their way, and despite her skills, she had been denied the very thing she had yearned for in the first place.

She sighed, reaching out to touch the robe's beaked hood, the same hood that obscured Altaïr's eyes most days, and wondered whether she had traded in one evil for another, such was the irony of her predicament. For the first time in a long time, she felt more alone than she had ever been, as if she were standing at a great precipice with no one to pull her back. Maria had been estranged from God, the Templar Order, and now the Brotherhood. In short, she wasn't sure where she belonged in a fortress as impenetrable as Masyaf.

Unbeknownst to her, Altaïr had been roused from sleep. He wasn't used to seeing Maria so introspective, but there was something about her stance that disturbed him, a type of gracelessness that wasn't indicative of her upbringing. He considered Maria's personality synonymous with a humming feeling, a feeling of being coiled too tight underneath skin and sinew and bone, a feeling that most people steadily ignored. If it was up to her however, he knew that she'd break free and run on forever, just to leave behind droning voices and dullness. She'd never been particularly soft at heart, too brash to pretend that she could kindle kindness in others, but these words, despite their misconceptions, came to mind when he saw her standing there, grasping his robes like a lifeline. This bothered him more than he wanted to admit.

"What is freedom," she asked suddenly, aware of his presence, "when a person can no longer discern its true purpose?"

"An illusion."

"You speak harshly for a man committed to the sanctity of such a thing," she said, turning to face him, letting her hands rest atop the leather of his sword belt.

"I speak honestly, for it is expected of me."

Her eyes narrowed and her hands tensed, knuckles turning white. His words had been intentional. He knew that she was confident enough to oppose him if she wanted to, confident enough to deride his stature, yet she wasn't one to back out of a dare and too often enjoyed making a mockery of him. Altaïr, enraptured by his own desires, thought her lovely in spite of it all. She kept him still and held his beating heart with one gaze, feeding off of him. She was a succubus, beautiful and dangerous, and despite appearing as hostile as many of the men he had encountered on his journeys, Altaïr knew that he had stepped into something she wanted rather desperately to speak of.

"What would you like to hear?" she asked, regarding him disapprovingly, as if he had been caught doing something questionable.

"I'd like to know what troubles you."

She bit sharply down on her lower lip, holding his stare the way no man had ever tried to do before. "I have grown weary of those who deem me godless purely because I am a woman. I wasn't born of frivolity, nor do I wish to become what I am not."

"It is not my place to delve into the hearts of men."

"And I'm not asking it of you," she said, catching his wrist and pulling him close so that she could look into his eyes, "but I can't live without my sword, just as you can't live without your Brotherhood. Is it fair to deny me that right?"

"I am not denying you of—"

"But you are," she urged, letting his wrist fall from her grasp, "what must I do to prove my worth? I have lived in the shadows of many men, and I refuse to live within yours."

Maria reached for his sword belt and removed a small dagger, rolling it between her hands for a moment, watching it glint dangerously in the sunlight. The satisfaction of handling a weapon was something she hadn't been privy to since she had entered Masyaf a couple of months earlier, but she knew better than to throw herself at Altaïr when her intentions were nothing but pure. Unfortunately for her, he reacted poorly. He took a stance indicative of his training, eyes darker than two twin coals, as naked as the day he had been born. Even though he looked rather menacing, she laughed, one harmonious, melodic note that trickled past her lips like water, and he released the breath he had been holding. Instead of attacking him, she handed him the blade.

"I want to be treated no differently than one of your brothers. If I must look the part, then so be it."

He turned his head and stared at her, completely surprised, folding his fingers around the dagger. "Are you sure this is what you want? They are not likely to be swayed, even though your ambition is to be admired."

"It is a start," she said, her voice thick with emotion, and she turned around so that he could handle her hair.

He reached out hesitantly and placed his hands on the crown of her head, threading several long strands between his fingers, holding the dagger as close to her scalp as he dared. He believed that there was beauty there, even though she thought little of it. The subdued earthy tone was like a song softly played as it drifted to the ground, a beauty not to be ignored, an honour, not a misfortune.

As the smooth, pearly column of her neck became all the more visible, he kissed her there, a sincere apology, full of heat and wetness and the rough edges of his teeth. In response, she pressed her hips against his groin. His tongue stroked the sensitive places on her neck and shoulders, tasting the sweet tang of her flesh, and the bruising force of his assault elicited a noise of pure lust from her mouth. He kissed her face, her eyes, her cheeks, her neck, and she yielded to his touch as if she had known nothing but the feel of his calloused hands her entire life. The smell and taste of him as her lips found his—that she understood more than anything else, a carnal need that drove her beyond restraint. Their eyes met, her pupils dilated, and his mouth opened a little wider, drinking in her ravaged appearance like a man deprived of water.

"If only your brothers could be as understanding," she said, arching into his touch, and he smiled, his hands fitting into her curves as if she had been built for him.

"I'm not inclined to share," he whispered into her ear, nuzzling the soft patch of skin behind it, "but I'm sure they'll come around."

And he captured her mouth again, words rendered useless because Maria knew that he planned on showing her just how much he'd understood for the next couple of hours. She knew that he'd have trouble finding his clothing the next day, and that she'd probably be too sore to even help, but at least she'd embarked on a path that had an ending. It was going to be an unpredictable path and a dangerous one of course, but she knew that there would be hope at the end of it. In quiet contemplation she could think about love, the people she cherished, and what was right with her life. She felt as if God's whisper could be heard between their laboured breaths. Once found, this happiness would be easier to find again.

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 **A/N: I should be studying. I have a History midterm on Thursday and this is the result of some productive procrastination. I was reviewing my notes on the Crusades, and then I started thinking about a really interesting reading by Helen Nicholson pertaining to "Women on the Third Crusade" and my mind blew up. I thought that it would be entertaining to write something involving Maria and Altaïr, because in reality, Maria would have been frowned upon as a female combatant. She probably wouldn't have fought at all, only in dire circumstances. If women participated in the crusades whatsoever, it was usually seen as a godless endeavor. Yeah. I like Maria and Altaïr.**

 **I hoped you guys enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it! Enjoy!**

 **Valēte,**

 **TeaAndWarmSocks**


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